In April my husband and I were invited to MUSC’s neonatal reunion. The reunion is set up through the hospital where the doctors and staff of the NICU and Level Two Nursery celebrate their “graduates”: all the children that were once patients. It’s a day where previous patients, their families, and the staff that treated them all get together to celebrate how far they’ve come.

Our girls were born at exactly 34 weeks. They weren’t necessarily wanting to come and were happy just kicking my ribs all day, but my body was Preeclampsic and my rising blood pressure made it urgent to deliver. The girls weighed in at 5 lbs. 7 oz. and 4 lbs. 11 oz.

I didn’t get to hold my babies immediately. I didn’t get to study their faces, or kiss their foreheads and say, “welcome to the world, I’m your mommy.” I didn’t have the option of skin to skin, or time for proper latching. My babies were taken immediately to the Level Two Nursery to be plugged into machines that kept track of their every movement.

These machines scared the hell out of me. I didn’t want to see my babies hooked up to anything; They belonged with me, not surrounded by plastic machinery and rubber gloves. These machines were there to save their lives but I resented them… they monitored every bad and scary moment, labeled as “events” and any events put on their record furthered them from coming home.

I didn’t bond with my girls immediately. Most moms tell a story of, “I held you and everything made sense…” I didn’t get to experience this. I was scared and helpless. After the girls were born I still had 24 hours left on Magnesium (a drug used to treat Preeclampsia) and I wasn’t allowed to leave the room because I was plugged to my own machine. My husband, mom, and mother-in-law showed me pictures of unfamiliar tiny faces in a nursery too far away but that did nothing but make me ache for them more. 24 long hours later I was finally wheeled in to see my babies but I was a complete mess. I was anxious and scared to touch them- fearing I would break them even more.

Parents of preemies don’t get that beautiful birth story. The delivery is panicked and rushed as their most precious belongings are taken and set up for battle. These babies aren’t cuddling with their new mom and dads, they are aren’t posing for pictures from the hospital photographer; they are provided with oxygen masks and feeding tubes: fighting for their lives. And they will continue to do so for days, weeks, sometimes many months. A new mother will look down at her deflated belly but see no baby in sight… the father will return to work, no need for him at home… and the siblings will be confused as to where their baby brother is and why Grandma is making them dinner. There will long drives to and from the hospital, lack of sleep from worrying and endless questions from family and friends with no answers to be given.

The only fleck of hope during these hard days is the amazing staff that comes with the NICU territory. These doctors and nurses have chosen to devote their careers to saving fragile miniature humans. They are there beside you, physically and emotionally. They will be there feeding, changing, and holding tiny fingers when you can’t be. When it’s 10 PM and you’re finally leaving the hospital – they will be there to replace you while you catch the bare minimum of sleep to be able to come back and do it all over again. They will be there for every scare, every small milestone, and with tissues when you’ve been told the “take home” date was pushed back another two days. They will be there to watch your face change from devastation to incredible giddiness when you finally get told your baby is coming home. They are the angels protecting and guiding you and your family during this gut-wrenching time. They are your baby’s cheerleaders and they know they’ve succeeded when they get to send a healthy baby home with you.

A few weeks ago, as I looked around the reunion all I saw were happy, healthy children. Children riding ponies, children getting their faces painted, children jumping in castles. I didn’t see a number representing the weeks they were born… I saw 10-year-olds, six-year-olds, two-year-olds smiling and laughing with their families. Looking around at hundreds of smiles I started tearing up. These children once fought for their lives – their parents and families  once went through some of the hardest days of their lives wondering when-if their baby would be coming home. But looking around now you would never know it…  look at how far they’ve come.